Paper Walls
by Firelce
Summary: The short AU story I had in Twofold. Jay loves to clean, or does he? Obsession can run deep inside a person, contaminating everything they know, and everything they are.


[Jay loves cleaning... Or does he?]

...

Jay loved to clean. Obsessively so.

Everything had to be in place.

He began at one end of his home and worked his way down to the other end- his bedroom. It was the room that always annoyed him the most, and whenever his mother went in, everything seemed to be chucked out of place.

His mother loved that his room was 'clean', she said she must be blessed not to have one of those typical teenage boys who lived in pigsties.

Jay finished dusting the ornaments in the hallway. He had arrived at the door to his room, carefully he opened the door with two fingers.

Jay began with the bed, then moved to his drawers. He dusted everything, cleaned the windows, and rearranged all his possessions.

He did this four times. Always four.

Then he would vacuum the floor, only once. Never more than once.

As he had said, his mother liked his clean room, but he hated when she told him it was obsessively so- it wasn't! It was reasonable. Especially in exchange for having to still live here. He swore she was crazy wanting to stay here... after what happened...

In fact staying here was making _him_ crazy! Now he'd probably never be able to leave, he'd have to stay here and clean this room four freaking times a day, five, if you count the vacuuming.

He was often asked why he cleaned. The first time he told them he liked to. They laughed and left him alone, so he stuck to that story. But it wasn't true. He hated cleaning. He always had. The _Thing_ didn't change that.

Truth be told Jay is dead now, died from cancer ten months ago. But before he gave up treatment, he told me about the _Thing,_ and that when he died he'd like me to write it down. Just because. That's another lie from him, he would have had a reason, he didn't have to tell me though, he knew I'd do it.

He knew me too well. Was that a bad thing? Who knows? But it doesn't matter, what mattered was the _Thing._ It was always back to the _Thing_ with Jay. Everything linked to it. EVERYTHING.

So here it is- the _Thing-_ Jay had five friends- four boys, one girl. He told me not to mention their names, if anyone knew him, they'd be able to guess who they were, if they didn't know him- it wasn't any of their business.

Anyway, four boys, one girl. They were very close. But not with anyone else, they had a lot of enemies. One night, the group was staying at Jay's, in his bedroom. A bit of a squeeze, but they fit. Like a child's puzzle. Small, but connected.

That night each was slaughtered, one by one. Except Jay, he killed the attacker. It was dismissed in court as self defense. His room was cleaned specially, and new carpet was laid down. It was in the news. But that was nearly seven years ago. No one remembers now, not really. Not like Jay did.

Jay always remembered. He wanted to leave. His parents stayed. He ran away. His parents brought him back 'home'. He couldn't forget. He tried though, he tried to scrape the memories off the walls of his room, off the carpet and the ceiling and eventually the whole house.

It didn't work. He could still remember. He tried to electrocute the memories from his brain with his inventions. But _that_ didn't work either.

Eventually Jay gave up on forgetting. He was branded. _Those_ memories wouldn't go away. They never would. But by then the cleaning had become a habit, a bad habit. He had to do it to stay calm, to not suffocate in his own home.

So he continued cleaning, he turned it into a ritual. A way to remember his friends. The people he loved more than his parents.

He would clean the whole house, because he could, and because he now noticed _every_ speck of dust. Then he would clean his room. The Room.

He would clean it once- in memory of the first.

Twice- in memory of the second.

A third time- in memory of the third.

A fourth time- in memory of the fourth.

Then a fifth time- for the last.

And while doing each of these he would think about them. Because he loved them, and now, he didn't _want_ to forget.

That's it. Jay's story, for those who care.

I talked to Jay's mother, heartbroken she is, was she _blessed_ not to have a typical teenage boy? No. No she was not. I left her to mourn. I didn't belong with Jay's parents. I wasn't sad about his death. I never will be.

And who am I you ask? Just one last question. Well, does it matter? This story isn't about me. It's about Jay. Not me,

Jay.


End file.
